


Tales of Butchered Men and Perished Souls

by GayNidoKing



Series: Silver, Crimson, Black [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Blight, Blind Character, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Laz Loves Jowan Very Much, Mage Rebellion, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Templars Being Templars, Tranquility
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 00:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14726426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayNidoKing/pseuds/GayNidoKing
Summary: They say war was inevitable. The Circle Towers of Thedas had been walking the thin line between order and disaster for decades, but everyone knew something had to give. All it took was one mage to decide that enough was enough, and bring their justice to the world in explosive fashion.When a tragedy beyond comprehension shakes Lake Calenhad, one woman allows herself a moment of uncontrolled anger and grief, and sparks a revolution that will shake Thedas to the core.A No Blight!AU in which my Surana leads an organized mage rebellion ten years before the established canon, almost by accident. This is Act 1, which details the Storming of the Circle Tower. Features heavy themes of abuse, PTSD, violence, and drug abuse in the form of lyrium.





	1. Prologue: Won't You Stop Telling Me What's Good For Me

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this for...three years, maybe? This is my baby, my beautiful brain-child, probably the most intensive fic I'll ever write. And it all started cause I lost my save multiple times and had to replay the Mage Origin like six times, and got really inspired.
> 
> I've played a little bit with the timeline for the purpose of this fic. In SCB canon, Surana undertook her Harrowing and learned about Jowan and Lily as in the game, but they did not attempt Jowan's escape until about two weeks later, and the actual events of his escape played out very differently. I will write a one shot at a later date detailing how it went down.
> 
> This fic/AU is very heavily inspired by music. Every chapter has a song which fits the general tone and theme of the story. The song for this chapter is:  
> "Any Longer" by Au5 feat. Q'aila

The halls of the Circle were nearly pitch-black at night, the darkness broken only by the singular torches which remained alight every fifty paces. Shadows moved swiftly between those solitary points of light, both hunters and prey. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant rhythmic tramp of a Templar patrol’s heavy boots, and the sharper, more distinct clack of a staff solidly striking the stone floor. A lithe shape walked boldly through the halls, not even pausing when it ghosted by a pair of mages pressed against one another beside the armoire. It avoided expertly the paths of the precisely-timed Templar patrols, ducking into side rooms and through servant halls, dodging its pursuers easier, though always the sound of the cane echoed.

A weary soldier tilted his head to the side, listened carefully, and shook his head.

“Ah, don’t worry about that,” he assured his younger compatriots, who still spooked too easily. “Just Surana, that is. Any second now she’ll get to Irving’s office, and it’ll stop. Every couple of nights, you’ll hear her wandering about. Nothing to worry about. She’s a good girl, but restless. Doesn’t cause trouble though.”

As he predicted, the shadow stopped at the door to the First Enchanter’s office, pausing a moment with head cocked and ears perked before pushing forward.

The door to the office swung open, but it was several seconds before she stepped through. The first thing to come into view was a long white staff—no, not a staff, not as one would have assumed. At this late hour, when it was suicide to cast even the most innocent of spells, the staff served primarily as a cane. It was followed by a slender young elf who looked every bit the harried ghost she made the appearance of. She had no need, it seemed, for propriety. She had come here straight from her bed, still wrapped in her thin sleeping robe with her hair only lazily tamed. It had been recently cut very short, which only made the gauntness of her cheekbones and the darkness around her eyes more pronounced, and it stuck up in spiky clumps that made her look wild and dangerous. Her dark skin looked washed-out and grey. The staff was leaning against her shoulder, and she swept it in front of her feet as she walked.

She walked into the room as if it were her own, moving with confidence even as she radiated exhaustion. She stopped only when she struck the soft leather of a mage’s boot with her cane and became aware of the heat and energy of another body. She tilted her head up to look into her master’s face. Her eyes moved restlessly about, but they focused on nothing.

“Hello, my child.” If Irving was disturbed by how close she now stood, it didn’t show in his voice. He reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder for a few seconds, long enough to confirm she wasn’t sleep-walking, and then dropped it quickly back to his side. “How may I help you?”

She didn’t immediately answer, and he knew that this was not her usual thoughtful silence. She wore her emotions discretely, but he knew her well enough now to read between the lines. Her mouth was thin and her brows were ever so slightly knit together. She gripped her cane so tightly that her knuckles were pale and the tendons stood up on the back of her slender wrist. She looked as though she hadn’t slept a wink in the week that had passed since her Harrowing. She opened her mouth several times as if to speak, and then clearly thought better of it.

“You may take your time,” he assured her, and stepped back. He retreated behind his desk, settling heavily into his chair, waving his hand habitually to indicate the chair across from him. “It has been a trying few days for you…I was certain you would still be resting after your Harrowing. The Templars insist that it was quick and clean, but I know how draining it can be. Quick and clean on this side of the Fade means nothing when you’re trapped in the other.”

“It was…certainly very challenging,” she admitted.

He looked carefully into her face, at her sunken eyes and pale cheeks. He chose his words carefully. “I see that cannot be the only reason for your exhaustion,” he said slowly. “Are your new quarters feeling empty after the chaos of the apprentice’s barracks? Everyone feels that way at first.” He did his best to sound reassuring and proud, rather than simply tired and resigned.

She didn’t answer right away, tilting her head to the side as if uncertain.

“It is…empty. Too quiet,” she admitted softly. She followed his lead when he stepped away, sinking into the chair opposite him. She held herself very carefully, gripping her cane before her as if it were a shield from the rest of the world. She smiled, with visible effort, and attempted to adopt a light tone. “It’s strange for me not to be able to hear anyone. I’d looked forward to getting a good night’s sleep without listening to Cas’s snoring, but it seems it’s become my lullaby. The only sound I can hear is the guard breathing outside my door.” Her smile melted away, and her jovial tone became even more forced. “It’s _unsettling_ …to be so… _alone_.”

“You will get used to it in time,” he said with a soft sigh. “It is an old method, and may sound a bit silly, but I’ve found that counting helps. It can distract you from the silence.” He knew that wasn’t why she was here either, and he also knew that she would not tell him why she had come until she was ready. Ordinarily, their late-night meetings involved long talks about magical theories or news from outside the Circle (which, technically speaking, he was not supposed to share with her). But he knew she would not have come looking so harried if she were here for their normal, casual chats.

They sat in silence for several more moments. Irving shuffled the papers on his desk, receiving them absently while he waited for Surana to gather her thoughts.

A group of Templars passed by the open door, peering in and nodding without a second glance.

Surana’s face was turned away from him, her eyes narrowed, and he could feel the tension coming off of her in waves. It built between them until it became a nearly tangible thing, and only when it felt like it might burst did she speak.

“Jowan is older than me,” she said softly.

Irving frowned, laced his fingers together beneath his chin. And here it was. Of all the subjects she could have brought up to him tonight, this was the one he would have wished to avoid most of all. “By a few months, I believe, yes, he is,” he agreed.

“He’s been here longer than me, as well.” She was trying to sound casual, but her words were too careful, too measured. “Seventeen years, isn’t it? He came when he was…six, I believe? He’s past three and twenty, and I’m not even there yet.” She paused barely a breath, not nearly enough time to him to speak. She had planned this speech. “I didn’t come until I was nearly ten. Only twelve years, I’ve been studying here.”

“You were ‘nine-and-three-fifths’, if I recall correctly.” He smiled into his hands as he recalled their first meeting. It had been late at night, which had set the precedent for their relationship. She had been full of fire and life from the moment she’d set foot in the Circle. The Templars had dragged her to him in desperation, as she’d already tried to stab one of them and bite the other, but as soon as they took their hands off of her, she became the most docile creature he’d ever seen. Clever and silver-tongued from the start, and _very_ insistent that everyone use her correct age. She’d been skin and bones, too, and though he knew she remembered, she’d never told him about where she’d come from.

Her lips quirked, but Surana was not to be deterred by memories of simpler times. She continued in the same careful tone as before, still refusing to turn her face to him.

“He took me under his wing,” she started again. “In a way. I exceled quickly in my studies. I didn’t need help with magic, of course, but he shielded me from the cruelty of…the other students.” A shadow passed over her face. “He was the only one who never treated me like I was… _less._ He was never as powerful as I was, not in the _ways_ I was, but he was never a failure either. He guided me, protected me, and excelled where I did not. He’s always been better than me at herbalism, and he takes to new spells much quicker than I did. He’s one of the better primal mages in our class, and the only one who took to spirit magic. He’s never been rebellious, never disrespectful, never secretive about anything. He has always been quick to help others, and he’s never had any problems with the Templars, not since he was a boy.”

She turned her head, looking at Irving’s face for the first time. Her face, normally serene and composed, only looked blank and tired now. She was wearing her grief as plainly as the tattoo on her face. She looked like a woman mourning a death.

It should have been a shock to Irving, should have made him angry and suspicious, but it only made him sad. He sighed deeply and lowered his hands to the desk. Though he knew she couldn’t see them, he spread his fingers over the papers before him as if to shield her from the truth. His signature hid beneath the palm of his hand, as if he could veil the truth from the Maker himself.

She wasn’t finished, and he listened, patient.

“You know, the night of my Harrowing, he asked me if…he told me that he…” All at once, Surana’s composure, barely held together as it was, broke. Her eyebrows came up and her mouth went down, and Irving could have sworn that her _ears_ seemed to droop. Her shoulders sank and she hunched forward until her forehead nearly rested on her hands, folded at the top of her cane. She looked like she was bowing in prayer, and perhaps she was. “I’m sorry. This is…ridiculous of me. He’s not even…” She trailed off, and he saw her hands tighten.

“Jowan was a good student,” he said carefully.

She huffed, not quite a laugh despite the bitter smile that twisted her mouth. “ _Was_ ,” she repeated, speaking to the floor. She seemed to say something else, so softly he couldn’t hear, and her head shook minutely as if she was trying to banish some terrible thought from her head.

Then, quiet but sure. “Jowan’s not going to have his Harrowing, is he?”

Irving didn’t even consider lying. The truth would out sooner rather than later, and Surana had few enough people she could trust without having to deal with his betrayal as well.

“No.”

She raised her head, blank eyes turned in the direction of his face. Her mask was back in place, barely, though he heard the slightest tremble in her voice when she said, “So he…he _is_ going to be made Tranquil.”

The way she said it, like it was a confirmation of what she already knew, solidified in Irving’s mind all his suspicions. And if that much was true, he supposed he had no authority to doubt the rest of it as well.

Surana had, in her kindhearted search for truth, confirmed Jowan’s guilt.

Irving sighed again, forcing himself to look her in the eye even though he knew it made no difference to her. Her eyes were flicking across the room in small uncontrolled movements, but there was no question that all her attention was on him.

“It is not because of his inadequacy, you know,” he said, as if it that could possibly be any kind of consolation. “Jowan was a capable mage, and we all know it, even if he sometimes felt the need to compare himself to you.”

The frown on her face became sharp and bitter, and he knew some of that bitterness was, quite rightfully, aimed at himself. He knew, now that it had come to a head, that his treatment of Surana, and by extension his treatment of Jowan, had to a certain extent caused all of this.

“So why?” she asked, though something in her tone, as if she were asking merely for the sake of it, suggested she knew the answer to that as well. Once again, this was something that should have concerned him, and yet it only deepened his sorrow.

“If it were up to me,” he said softly, “it would not happen this way. But Greagoir claims he has eyewitness accounts of Jowan practicing blood magic.”

He said it as gently as he could, though she still seemed to take the words like a blow. She closed her eyes and turned her face away, sighing softly to herself. Her lips moved, but she spoke too softly for him to hear.

“Judging by the fact that you are not surprised by this,” he said, “I assume that Jowan’s initiate… _friend_ has already told you of his fate.”

Surana’s eyes opened slowly. “You know about Jowan and Lily.” She said it in the same blank, tired tone as before. He had the feeling that neither of them had anything to say that could surprise the other, but they continued with the conversation for validation’s sake.

“I am not as oblivious as some of you would have me be,” he said with a chuckle that held no mirth. “I am more interested in how _you_ came by this knowledge.”

She paused, turning over his words in her head, deciding how to answer. “She saw the papers on your desk,” she said in a quiet voice, face still turned towards the bookshelves. “She told him, and he told me, and I…I hoped that it wasn’t…that maybe she was mistaken.” She turned her face down. “I knew you’d tell me, if I asked.”

Irving looked down at the request for Jowan’s Rite of Tranquility, which seemed to smolder beneath his palms. He had only signed it the night before. His fingers traced absently over his own signature, which burned his fingers like a brand. Greagoir was angry at him for taking so long to complete the simple paperwork; the request had come two weeks ago, set on his desk the same day they began preparations for Surana’s Harrowing. Every second Irving hadn’t signed it was, in Greagoir’s mind, another second that the danger to the Circle grew. Although the allegations leveled against his student were serious, he knew he could not make this decision hastily. And, he supposed, part of him wanted the mages to have at least a few days of celebration after Surana’s Harrowing before dampening their mood. Jowan was not the only mage slated for Tranquility at the moment.

“If it were not Tranquility,” he said gently, “he would be put to death, you know, for dallying with that girl. If he had chosen anyone else in the Circle, it would be a stern talking to and a slap on the wrist, but an _initiate_ …”

“No matter who he fell in love with, he would still have been made Tranquil because of _this_ ,” she said, and in her mind he knew that solved the conundrum. Surana was very clever, but in some ways her thoughts were very simple, and her conclusions very black and white. No matter what happened in the past, the present was what it was and it was all that was important. It didn’t matter that Irving _wished_ to be merciful. It only mattered that he hadn’t been.

Irving’s chest tightened briefly. This may very well be his last late night talk with Surana. He knew her very well, and he knew how her heart worked. She would blame him for this, whether she admitted to it to herself or not. He had no doubt that Jowan suspected why he was being made Tranquil, and he had no doubt that he had already denied those accusations to her. As such, he had no doubt that Surana, who trusted fully or not at all, believed with all her heart that Jowan was an innocent man being sent to the gallows on false charges, and that Irving was the man tying the noose about his neck.

“I am sorry, child. Truly.”

She turned to him, head tilted to the side as if she was listening for something. “I know,” she said quietly, and Irving realized not for the first time how _young_ she was. She was regarded as a prodigy by many of the other apprentices, but the truth was that she was no younger than the average mage when they took their Harrowing. In fact, she was a few years _older_ than Irving had been when he’d undergone his at twenty.

A patrol of Templars passed by the door, giving the two of them no more than a cursory glance. Surana paid them no more mind than she had the first, wholly absorbed in her thoughts.

When the sound of heavy footsteps faded into nonimportance, Surana pulled herself to her feet. The effort it took her was monumental and obvious, and she leaned heavily on her cane.

“Thank you for seeing me tonight, First Enchanter,” she said as she always did, bowing slightly.

“Get some rest, child. If your difficulty persists, I would suggest going to see June in the infirmary. She makes an excellent herbal tea that never fails to knock me out when I have problems sleeping.”

She smiled in thanks and allowed him to walk her out the door. She was tiny beside him, the top of her head just below his shoulder, and her hand on the crook of his elbow felt like a child’s. She leaned on him as much as her cane at this point, and her feet dragged along the stone floor. She was too proud to trip, but she gripped his arm tighter when they stepped over shallow steps. He did not lead her so much as pull her; exhaustion and grief weighed on her as heavily as any chain, and he was sure she was half-asleep by the time they stopped in front of the door to her quarters.

“Good night, child. I hope you find rest tonight.”

She let out a drowsy mumble in reply and didn’t protest when he slid his hand over hers. Her fingers were cold, and they trembled.

He squeezed her hand once before dropping it. As he walked away, he heard her soft voice as she charmed her guard into waving away her late-night wanderings. Even half-asleep, the girl was silver-tongued.

It was a long walk up to his quarters, and a quiet one. Much like Surana, he had leave to walk the halls at night (though he had earned that right more officially than she had), and so he wasn’t concerned with being harassed. He encountered no patrols on the walk and saw no more sleepless mages. The silence of the sleeping Tower was near stifling on the best of nights, and tonight it felt like a physical weight on his shoulders. He nodded to the guard standing outside his room and shed his robes as if they weighed a thousand pounds.

Would that he could shed the responsibilities that came with them as easily. As he laid staring at the ceiling, he thought of Surana’s face, grief-stricken as he hadn’t seen it since she was a child. He wondered if she would ever forgive him.

He got his answer, he supposed, when he received word three days later that an alleged blood mage and a Chantry initiate had vanished in the night. Surana had not come into his study since that night, and she did not come any night thereafter. He still stayed up half the night poring over his papers, but he found the magical theories and political gossip was not as enticing as it had been when he’d had someone young and bright to quip about them. When he met Surana in the halls, she looked at him no longer as a mentor. She was a student no longer, and as such she had no need for him to be her teacher.

Perhaps, if he’d paid more attention, Irving would have seen that as the warning it was. He would have paid more attention. He would have seen the fresh scuffs on her cane, the pale dust on the hems of her robes, and known them for what they were. He told himself at the time that it was only another end to a short period of their lives, but later he would realize the truth. That night, he would realize much too late, marked the beginning of something bigger than he could have fathomed.


	2. Your Eyes, They Shine So Bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions are made, and groundwork is laid for events to come. A child without innocence becomes a woman, and beats her tired wings against the rusty bars of her cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the story begins proper! The first three chapters are mostly set up and scene setting, to give you a better sense of who Laz is and why she is going to do what she does.
> 
> The song for this chapter is:  
> "Demons" by Imagine Dragons

Laz took a deep breath and forced herself not to move as the spell flew towards her. She braced herself for the impact, which she’d been told felt like being slammed into a wall of densely stuffed cushions.

The air around her began to crackle and warp, and with an anticlimactic _hiss!_ the spell was cast. The aim was off, though, and the disorientation spell fizzled out on the wall beside her. She was caught in the very edge of it, and it left her with a weirdly fuzzy sensation at the base of her skull, and a few harebrained notions as to what she was to have for dinner.

She waited a few seconds before speaking, making sure that what came out of her mouth was coherent. Her thoughts were a bit scrambled, which meant the spell was cast correctly.

“Remember to keep your hand steady,” she finally said, slurring only the first two words. “The magic will supposedly go wherever you will it no matter where your hand is pointed, but it’s easier to focus on a physical point than empty air. If your hand wavers, the spell will too.”

Kian let out an annoyed huff, and she heard a rustle of cloth as he aggressively adjusting his robes. “How can you tell my hands are shaking?” he demanded.

“Because your aim is off.” Laz smiled and stepped forward, pushing herself off the wall slowly. There was some lingering dizziness from the spell, but no one was going to notice if she leaned too hard on her cane. She stopped walking when she was close enough to feel the warmth of his body and reached out until her hand found his shoulder, or where she judged his shoulder to be. He relaxed ever so slightly at her touch. “Take a few deep breaths before you try again. Calm your mind.”

He obeyed, taking exaggerated breaths to make sure she got the message.

“I’ve been trying this for a month now,” he said, soft enough that the other apprentices who were watching from the table couldn’t hear. “I may not _get_ it at this point.”

She squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Kian,” she said, not lowering her voice. “Once you get the basics, everything becomes easy. Unfortunately, the basics are…not so basic, in our school. But you have affinity for it, and that’s more than most can say.”

“But I—”

An aggravated huff sounded from behind him, and Laz heard the scrape of a chair being shifted against the stone floor.

“Maker, Kian, stop bitching!” Lyra had been waiting her turn to attempt this spell for nearly an hour while Kian struggled to cast it properly. Her harsh words were softened by the mirth in her tone. She was teasing him, not admonishing him.

Kian turned away from Laz, muscles hard. “Who’s bitching? Of the two of us, who’s the one who can actually _cast_ this spell?” His voice was light as well, though she could feel the tension that hadn’t left him. His failure was affecting him more than he was willing to admit aloud.

“Hey, there’s no need for all that!” Laz widened her eyes and adopted a harsher tone. “Entropy is a difficult school to get into, let alone master. We’re all struggling at our own paces.” She nudged Kian with her elbow meaningfully, and he let out another deep sigh.

“You’re right, Miss Surana.” Without her having to prompt him to do so, Kian turned and said, “Sorry for snapping, Lyra.”

“No problem,” she sighed, and Laz threw a disapproving look in her direction. She ignored it, if she saw it at all.

It was nearly time to end the lesson, Laz decided. They’d been at this for several hours, and the apprentices were starting to get restless and grouchy. The sun was getting low, she knew. She could no longer feel it beating through the window, and the busy chatter of the afternoon had faded. In this section of the library, she and her four students were completely alone save for the Templar discretely watching them through the shelves. They had cleared away most of the clutter so they would have plenty of space to practice (and little to damage while doing so).

“Don’t worry about it too much,” she said with a light tone, returning to her place at the window. She leaned back against the sill, trying to absorb what little warmth was left in the stone from the afternoon. “Believe it or not, you’re getting better. You didn’t hit me, but I caught the tail end of the magic. The spell is right, you’re just not holding it long enough or pushing it in the right direction.” She tried to calculate how long it could have been since the sun had fallen behind the mountains. “We’ll try one more time, and then we’ll call it a night, alright?” she suggested. She said it a little bit louder, so she was sure their watchdog could hear.

He sighed a long-suffering sigh. “Alright,” he agreed, and prepared himself.

The awareness of the other apprentices shifted, with varying degrees of interest. Everyone in this section of the library was staring at Laz now. She kept her expression cool and relaxed, forcing a smile into the corner of her mouth.

_Never show them you’re afraid._

Kian’s power swelled, a beacon of light and life. She could feel the way he shaped the magic, twisting it to fit the mold he wanted, and he lifted his trembling hand and—

“Andraste’s heaving tits!” His voice cracked as the magic flew from his hand, the entire wrong shape.

“Miss Surana, move!”

With Lyra’s help, Laz moved aside at the very last moment, sensing the spell going awry at the same instant Kian did…which was an instant too late. The spell that flew towards her was _not_ Disorientation, and it would hit her quite a bit harder than a wall of cushions. Lyra jerked her roughly to the left, and Laz threw up a small barrier to shield them (and the books) from the bright flames that shot towards them.

The magic blasted the wall, exploding in bright intensity for only a moment before the library’s wards dampened it to a controllable flame. Laz’s started laugh drowned out the sound of the fire that she immediately rushed to douse. She summoned a small cloud of ice to consume the heat, forcing herself to go through the motions as if it were nothing. It took a few tries, but the apprentices weren’t advanced enough to notice. Extinguishing the fire was not as easy a task as it should have been. Primal magic had always been her weakest school. She managed to control the blaze before it could spread to the books or shelves, though the heat of Kian’s frustration beat at her skin.

She tried to soothe him with more efficiency than she had the flames.

“What language!” she admonished gently, even as she cursed even more creatively in her mind. “Well, I think that _definitely_ brings an end to today’s lesson. Don’t worry about the books, Kian…it’s practically a rite of passage to set the library on fire. ”

Kian huffed again, and she heard him fall heavily into one of the chairs by his fellow apprentices. He was likely running his fingers through his hair and waving his hands in exaggerated despair, hamming up his frustration to hide his disappointment. Laz allowed him his theatrics, patting at her sleeves to ensure nothing had caught alight. It would be like her to wander through the Circle with her robes on fire and not notice.

“This is im _poss_ ible!” he announced strongly, and then immediately corrected himself. “No, it’s not…” He sighed heavily. “It’s just _hard_.”

“Entropy is a difficult school to master, even if you take naturally to it,” she assured him, giving him what she hoped was a bright smile. “You’ve done very well, all things considered!” She crossed the short distance, allowing an apprentice to guide her into an empty chair.

Kian hummed, a noncommittal noise to hide how pleased he was by her praise, and she pretended not to see that for exactly what it was.

“That was entertaining.” Lyra sniggered, and Laz heard the soft thump of flesh hitting flesh and a cry of protest. Before a scuffle could break out, she spoke up, voice stronger than she felt.

“None of that! Come, now, we’re all mature individuals.”

“Maybe _you_ are, Miss Surana!” Rexa’s smile was obvious in her voice, and she leaned briefly against Laz’s shoulder. “That’s _not_ the word I would use for those two!”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Kian demanded, but, with Laz between them, made no move towards Rexa.

“It _means_ that I’m older than you,” Laz cut in. “But if we’ve come to that, I think it’s time for us to go eat. Children get _so_ grumpy when they’re hungry.”

“I’m not a child!” Rexa protested, but she was still smiling. She leaned into Laz one more time, bumping their shoulders.

They all made a grand show of grumbling and complaining, but Lyra, Rexa, and Len excused themselves one by one with quick hugs and soft good nights, until it was only Laz and Kian sitting alone with the smell of lightly singed wood.

The Templar behind the shelf moved a little closer, close enough that if Laz concentrated, she could almost feel the ebb and flow of his blood. She focused instead on Kian, who was definitely pouting.

She still had a few wisps of magic dancing around her skin from the shield, and could feel Kian’s life, bright and bunched up, compressed as he hunched over the table. He was breathing heavily, no doubt exhausted. He had been casting spells almost nonstop the entire session.

“Come on,” she prodded. “I’m tired, and you need to rest.”

“Yeah, alright, _mamae_.” He had enough cheer left in him to tease her with the elven word “mother,” a nickname she’d earned among the apprentices. “I’m getting up.”

She reached and he slipped his arm into hers without provocation. They weaved around piles of books and tables that creaked beneath the weight of abandoned projects, returning polite greetings to those few who still wandered the shelves. There was a tired creak as the Templar moved from their post for the first time in several hours.

Despite the fact that she’d done little beyond the initial demonstration of the spell, Laz felt drained. Perhaps Kian’s Disorientation had hit her a bit harder than she’d suspected. She allowed him to pull her through the library without resistance or mindfulness. Her mind drifted away off to somewhere quiet and dark.

“Can we do this again tomorrow?” he asked absently as they made their way back to the front of the library. She had no doubt he had a book in his other hand and had already shoved his nose in it. How they hadn’t already fallen flat on their faces, she couldn’t begin to guess.

Despite what Laz wanted, she said, “Not tomorrow. You’re neglecting your other studies.” As always, she spoke loud enough for the Templar following to hear.

Kian made a stifled noise in the back of his throat as he prepared to protest, and then he stiffened as the words made impact in his mind. He was only fifteen, but he was old enough to understand the layers beneath words. “Oh.” He deflated. “You’re right. I am.”

“There’s a good boy,” she said teasingly, imitating the patronizing tone that Grace, his _actual_ teacher, often adopted when talking to her apprentices. Laz had been tutoring the few apprentices interested in entropy magic for the past few weeks while Grace recovered from a nasty cold.

As expected, Kian scoffed and sputtered at her tone, and the tension was gone before it could truly manifest.

“Oh, Maker, Miss Surana, you really _are_ acting like my mother now!” He groaned in mock despair, but squeezed her arm affectionately.

Even as they kept up their light-hearted banter, Laz’s mind remained in shadow.

Kian wasn’t neglecting anything, and they both knew it. He was like she’d been when she was his age: eager to please and even more eager to learn, and he took to entropy like a fish to water. All he needed to flourish was a little bit of extra help, and a little bit of practice guided by someone who lived and breathed the art. Laz wasn’t going to take any chances, though, not even for him. She’d cut all of the apprentices’ one-on-one time short, not even allowing extra time for those who were obviously struggling. Spending too much time practicing magic— _any_ magic—was dangerous right now, as was spending too much time with certain people. Certain people, including herself. She was not going to put Kian in danger, not even to satisfy his own desire to succeed.

People had been disappearing, with increasing frequency. Either the missing mages showed up again as Tranquil…or they didn’t. Though wild tales of suicide and escape no doubt filled the apprentices’ quarters, the older mages were wise enough to know that the lost persons were not that lucky. The Templars had been hyper-vigilant in recent months, and everyone was being extremely careful not to draw their attention. Ordinary tutoring hours were shortened, the library guard had nearly doubled, and all leisure time was spent in one’s quarters or in the dining room where you were under the Templars’ watchful eyes.

Of course, it was partially her fault, and partially _his_ fault as well, not that she would ever think to blame him for—

“Laz!”

She was jerked roughly to the side, and Laz nearly stumbled as her head began to spin and buzz. The shelf whistled by her head as she narrowly avoided walking directly into it. A strong hand gripped her arm hard enough to bruise, and she leaned against his shoulder gratefully.

“Thank you, Jow—Kian.” Laz’s heart nearly ran away with her mouth, but she caught herself. “Thank you very much, Kian.” She rushed to smooth over her mistake, squeezing his arm. Her breath caught in her throat, and she couldn’t help letting out a few wheezing breaths.

“Maybe you don’t know the library as well as you say you do,” he joked, and she forced herself to laugh along with him.

“Or maybe your spell hit me a little harder than I thought it did,” she suggested, hoping to bolster his spirits and turn his thoughts away from her misstep.

“You think so? I hope so! I’ve been trying to master it for so long and I…”

They dissolved into easy small talk as he escorted her. She tried not to think of the Templar behind them, whose eyes were like a weight on her shoulder.

_Don’t let them know you’re thinking of him._

She was more mindful of her surroundings as they exited the library, even going so far as to nod at the guards as they passed. She stepped carefully and kept her ears cocked, tapping her staff gently against the floor in front of her feet.

Even getting lost in thought was cause for suspicion these days.

 _Wherever you are, Jowan, I hope you’re having a better time of it than I am._ The thought was less bitter than she would have expected, and, not for the first time, she felt a pang of wistful loneliness.

It had been seven months since Jowan, Laz’s oldest and dearest friend, had vanished. It was now common knowledge that he had discovered sneaking around with a Chantry initiate, just as it was now common knowledge that that was not why he had run. The rumors that he’d outed himself as a blood mage while fighting to escape were accepted completely as truth now, though even worse was that apparently he’d implicated others well. That ten other apprentices had been made Tranquil the week after his escape was a fact that no one could easily ignore. Ever since then, accusations had flown, and people had vanished, and the Tower fell in a state of nervous, fearful tension.

Laz was not overly worried for Jowan, wherever he was. He was level-headed and pragmatic, if a tad overemotional. He’d always thought things through before acting more carefully than she did. She had no idea where he’d gone, or if he and Lily had managed to meet up after their respective escapes. She hoped they had. Jowan had never liked being alone. All she knew for certain was that he _had_ escaped. If he had been caught, she knew Greagoir would waste no time rubbing her nose in it. But his silence was telling. Her best friend was free, and she had to be content with that. Wherever he was, she had to believe that he was doing better than she.

Kian chattered about nothing in particular as she escorted him to the apprentices’ quarters. He shrugged off the darkness of the Circle easily, as only children seemed able to, and she adored him for it. Even if the whole place was in flames around him, he would probably just tell her that all the light made for better reading. If she replied that she was blind, he would tell her it was better than being cold. For all his easy frustration, Kian was the brightest and most optimistic of her apprentices, and he hated to see others falling into the glum moods that frequented him.

Before he may have hugged her when they parted, but with the eyes of countless paranoid Templars on them he just squeezed her arm and let her with a cheerful,

“See you later, Miss Surana! Thanks for helping me!”

“Of course.” She didn’t need to fake the warmth in her tone, or the smile on her face as she listened to his receding footsteps. She listened for just a moment to the sound of him greeting his peers, who opened their circle to him without hesitation. She sighed quietly to herself and turned away. It was best not to stay in one place for too long if you had no business there. It looked suspicious.

Given that the Circle Tower was just that—a circular tower—it didn’t really matter what direction Laz walked in. So long as she walked like she had somewhere to be, no one would care what she was actually doing.

She considered going back to the library, but that place didn’t hold the same joy it once did. Now that she’d passed her Harrowing, she no longer had the consuming frenzy for knowledge that had driven her to seek the library in every quiet moment of her apprenticeship. Learning and perfecting her art was no longer a do-or-die endeavor, and she was free to explore her own abilities as she saw fit. Without the threat of Tranquility hanging over her head, it was also a bit harder to convince people to set aside the hours they would need to dedicate to reading to her. Not that anyone but Jowan ever had. He’d enjoyed reading to her, though he liked reading storybooks more than scholarly texts. It was their secret that he liked to do character voices.

Maybe, she thought, she could get one of her entourage to do it. It wasn’t as if they were going away anytime soon.

Without Kian’s step to drown them out, Laz was hyperaware of what she had mentally dubbed her personal entourage. The title made it sound a lot less terrifying than it was. “Personal entourage” was much more comforting than “full-time Templar death patrol,” even if it was less accurate. These days, she took what little comfort she could find.

She’d been under intense scrutiny ever since Jowan’s disappearance, and there were always at least three Templars within shouting distance. They were all unfamiliar to her, probably newer recruits she hadn’t had time to talk to yet. Most Templars in the Circle saw her as a weak and quiet young girl, completely helpless and unable to defend herself without her magic. These ones, though…she hadn’t had time to bat her eyes, bump into walls, and ask for directions to a place she knew very well how to get to. These Templars only knew her as the mage they’d been assigned to tail. She was, to them, only object of suspicion.

Laz hadn’t worked up the nerve to greet her entourage even casually, too afraid that such nonchalance would translate to arrogance, which would translate to suspicion, which would lead to her quiet disappearance. She’d had enough “alone time” with Templars for the rest of her life.

A violent shiver ran up her spine and she gripped her cane tighter. Though she desperately wanted them not to, thoughts of what had occurred months ago surfaced. Her skin began to itch and burn as she remembered cuts and bruises that were now long-healed.

Laz had woken up the morning after her best friend disappeared to find a team of Templars at the foot of her bed, and she’d spent the next several days in a cell being… _questioned_ relentlessly about her involvement in his escape. Though she could give them no information, she knew she was not free of suspicion. She had been closer to Jowan than anyone, and she had been since she’d come to the Circle. Their relationship was common knowledge. It was difficult to believe, apparently, that he would have hidden the fact that he was a blood mage from her for as long as he had, and suddenly her longtime mastery of certain arts was suspect. Entropy magic was not blood magic, but some of the spells were just similar enough to give the Templars pause. Greagoir had officially declared her innocent, but since then, she had not gone anywhere without her…personal entourage.

She slowed nearly to a stop, waiting for one of them to drift close enough for her to be able to call out without raising suspicion. She tilted her head to the side, listening carefully as he came up on her right. She wondered what to say that wasn’t too patronizing, wasn’t too cheerful, wasn’t too disrespectful. She wondered if this one was one of the nicer ones, who would agree to read to her on account of that ensuring she was under their constant scrutiny.

“Move along, knife-ear. Don’t make trouble.” Her voice was sharp and full of venom, and Laz heard the familiar sound of a hand settling on the handle of a blade.

She sped up again, putting that plan out of her head. Unwilling to admit defeat and slink back to her small quarters just yet, Laz changed course and made her way to the storerooms. Hardly any less suspicious, but it was routine enough that they wouldn’t question it.

This was where she spent her time if she wasn’t helping a student or lying in bed (though those two activities took up a majority of her day). She came so frequently now that Owain no longer asked her if she was searching for anything when she stepped in. He just gave her a casual greeting (“Good evening, Miss Surana. A pleasure to see you. Avoid the west corner; there was an accident and I haven’t had a chance to tidy up.”) and left her go about her business, which mostly just involved wandering around and examining the inventory. She definitely wasn’t allowed to take anything anymore, but it gave her a false sense of activity to wander around and keep a mental inventory.

She walked along the shelves, running her fingers over everything she could reach. If she came across anything interesting, she would ask Owain about it. She liked to think he enjoyed telling her about all the items he guarded, though logically she knew it made no difference to him one way or another. She was unwilling to think of the Tranquil as… _ex_ -people, clinging stubbornly to the belief that something of their previous soul still remained within. The concept was far less comforting than she’d hoped it would be, but it was too engrained in her mind now to discard.

 There was nothing new today. She felt a pang of disappointment as ran her hands over the next shelf. Her fingers found something familiar, and her face twisted into something that was not a fond smile. Thanks to hasty forethought and dumb luck, her part in Jowan’s escape had remained, for the most part, unknown. Greagoir had his suspicions, or else she would never have been interrogated in the first place. It was a mix of her own reputation, Irving’s fondness of her, and Greagoir’s desire to catch her red-handed that had kept Laz alive. He was just fair-minded enough that he wouldn’t do away with her on nothing more than speculation. She supposed she was supposed to feel lucky for that, hearing the stories of some other Circles. She mostly just felt bitter and afraid.

Owain came up behind her, and made a noise that, if he weren’t Tranqil, she would assume was meant to convey amusement.

“Do you wish to take the rod of fire again?” he asked. “I’ve noted you’ve been neglecting your study of elemental magic.”

A chill ran through her, and she jerked her hands back as if burned. They curled against her chest, and she forced a small chuckle that sounded hysterical.

“No, I think not.” She turned her face and give him a smile that she hoped was less forced. “I found it was not one of my strengths. Burned myself a few too many times.” Her laugh was quiet and bitter, but believable.

That had been her excuse, all those months ago, for taking the rod. She had always been a poor elemental mage and had taken the fire rod under the pretense of attempting to master that school. She’d even borrowed it a few times afterwards, to keep up appearances, but gave up the farce when the intense scrutiny, to all appearances, was lifted. Given her reputation for being a perfectionist, no one was surprised by the excuse, which Laz found amusing. Anyone who knew her well knew that she was far too much of a perfectionist to devote that much time to something she knew she would never master. Given the choice, she would sooner forget elemental magic even existed rather than try at a vain attempt to master it.

“Well, let me know if you need anything,” he said quietly, and shuffled away. She wondered if he stepped so loud on purpose so that she could hear him, or if heavy feet were another symptom of Tranquility.

“Of course, Owain.” She smiled after him.

She wandered around the storeroom, running her fingers idly over the shelves and listening to the mages milling about the room. They chattered and gossiped softly.

“Miss Surana!”

Laz hoped she didn’t jump nearly as high as she felt she did. Panic rose in her instantly, and she struggled to keep her face neutral as she turned about to the barely familiar voice.

“Miss Surana!” they repeated, louder this time. There was a brief swirl of color and movement, and a pair of cold hands grasped hers. She was pulled none-too-gently away from the shelf and towards a slender body. Luckily, Laz was passingly familiar with these hands, and she felt the initial burst of panic fade.

“Oh, I knew I’d find you here!” Bay said, entwining their fingers with hers. “Always so studious, even now that you’ve graduated!”

The adrenaline hadn’t worn off but Laz smiled for the barest instant. “Good evening, Bay,” she said, and was proud that her voice didn’t shake. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, well, other than the chance to see the prettiest face in the Tower, of course!” They released one of her hands to tweak her cheek, moving slow enough that she could see the touch coming, and move away if she wished. She allowed the contact, and it brought a genuine smile to her face.

“Other than that, yes,” she prompted, laughing despite herself at the compliment. This was why she liked Bay. It was hard not to. They had never gone out of their way to befriend her, but they’d never been cold to her either. They always spoke to her with respect and cheer.

 “Oh! Irving is looking for you! But I suppose that’s hardly a surprise!” Bay’s laugh was light and beautiful and warm, the way Laz imagined sunshine must look. “I’m supposed to take you to him immediately! Make sure you don’t get lost!”

Laz couldn’t help the flare of annoyance at that, but she smothered it quickly. They meant well, she knew. The issue with cultivating the appearance of a helpless young elf was that, well…people tended to see you as a helpless young elf. Never mind that she’d walked to Irving’s office nearly every day of her adolescence and early adulthood. Surely she could get there on her own without running into a wall.

“I don’t suppose he told you why?” she asked instead of voicing her petty grievances.

Bay laughed again, and it was no less lovely the second time around. “No, no, but I’m sure it’s nothing too serious!” She felt them move away, but they kept their tight grip on her hand. “Shall we go?”

“We shall,” she agreed.

The walk was precisely as she remembered it. Bay chattered pleasantly on the way, almost enough to drown out the steady footfalls of the Templar trailing them at a less-than-discrete distance. They told her about the tiny hole in the wall of the empty room next to theirs, the inhabitant of which disappeared a week or two before anyone noticed the hole was there. They told her a story they’d heard from someone who’d overhead one of the Starkhaven apprentices telling it to a friend about this Marcher mage who accidentally lit an entire roomful of apprentices on fire, and in the attempts to put it out, discovered that it was some kind of magical fire that was extremely resistant to water, but went out instantly at the sound of laughter. She wasn’t sure if she believed that, but she laughed along.

Laz felt a little bit lighter walking beside them, so much so that the final few feet towards Irving’s door didn’t fill her with nearly as much dread as she had anticipated.

“Well, I’ll leave you here!” Bay was oblivious to her discomfort, voice cheerful and laughing as always. They didn’t release her arm, stroking her wrist absently as they spoke. “Or…do you want me to wait? I can take you back when you’re done!” The offer was made with genuine warmth, not a hint of patronization or pity. They shifted her wrist, almost imperceptibly, in the direction of the Templars trailing them.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” she assured them, pulling away with some hesitation. “I can find my way back, I’m sure.”

“Well…alright!” They released her arm with a soft sigh. “I’ll see you around, Miss Surana! Don’t be a stranger!”

Laz kept her hand lifted in farewell longer than she should have. Alone, the dread crept up on her, and she turned to Irving’s door with obvious reluctance.

“Oh, uhm...hello, miss.”

The voice was familiar, and Laz almost forced herself to smile out of habit. She remembered herself at the last moment, and kept her face neutral and cold.

“There’s, uh…n-no one else in there, so…you can just, uhm…go right in?”

“Thank you, Ser Cullen.” She kept her tone even, giving away neither her terror nor her hatred.

She knocked once on the doorframe before stepping in, a bit too quickly to be casual.

“Who—ah! Laz! Come in, my child! I see that Bay found you quickly.” Irving’s voice was as warm and friendly as it ever was, as if they were still master and apprentice, as if the past seven months had never happened. It only worsened the sense of unease that clung to her.

She stepped forward, walking forward until her cane struck the back of a chair. She wasn’t sure if Irving was standing or sitting, so she simply stood beside it, leaning her hip discretely against the arm rest.

“You look very good. Is the mage life treating you well?” His attempts at pleasant small talk fell somewhat short. The tired resignation at his voice killed any semblance of lightness the conversation may have had.

“Well enough.” She obliged him, though her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the head of her cane. “There is not as much for me to do anymore, but I find ways to pass the time.”

“Yes…so you do…” His voice became lower, thoughtful, and she felt his intense scrutiny. She didn’t lower her head. “I have been meaning to ask you about that. How are you getting on with Grace’s apprentices? They were not bothering you too much?”

“No, not at all.” She tilted her head to the side, allowing herself a small smile as she thought of her charges. “I’m surprised by how many of them are learning entropy…for a long time, I was one of, what, a dozen here? Now, Grace can barely keep up with them! I’m handling those she doesn’t have time for, and the older ones who need a little extra help.”

“Yes, yes…I’m sure Grace will recover in time.” Irving sighed deeply and she heard the creak of his robes as he folded his arms. He took a deep breath and she heard the telltale creak of his chair. She sat down. “That is...partially why I’ve called you here. You spend a great deal of time with the apprentices, don’t you?”

Laz’s blood went cold, and she forced herself to loosen her grip on her cane before she cracked the wood. “What seems to be the problem?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice calm. Did the Templars suspect her of teaching the apprentices blood magic? Were the apprentices in danger? Should she stop seeing them? Should she stop—

Irving sighed deeply, interrupting her spiraling thoughts. “I will be frank with you, Surana…I owe you that much, I think.”

Laz wanted to tell him that he owed her a great deal more than that but she kept her mouth shut. The last thing she wanted was rumors going around of her losing her temper.

“Greagoir has expressed some suspicion as to your recent activities…or more, accurately, your recent lack of activity.” There was a creak of wood, a shuffle of paper, and then silence. He was waiting for her response.

“Is that so?” Laz was struggling not to laugh aloud. She wasn’t amused, no, but something about this was funny. Now even depression was a punishable offense. How dare she mourn the loss of her dear friend, or her lost childhood? Templars were so frightened of her now that even spending the day in bed was cause for suspicion. She had done so much the past seven months to make sure no one looked at her too long or too hard, and in the end all it took to incriminate her was frequent naps.

Evidently she didn’t do as good a job of hiding her bitter amusement as she thought, because Irving continued, “No, don’t look like that…you’re not in any trouble yet. Greagoir suggested further investigation, but I told him that you were simply drifting, still in shock from all that happened. Everyone knows how close you and Jowan were, and such a betrayal no doubt hit you very hard.” He paused again, but she stayed quiet this time. “You will take an official job within the Circle, something to keep you occupied when you’re not tutoring the apprentices.”

Laz was torn between rage and mirthless laughter. “I see…how kind of you to warn me,” she said, before she could think to stop herself. “What a shame no one else got such a warning, hm?” Never mind that Jowan _was_ guilty. Laz was enraged that Irving thought of warning her, and even worse, _helping_ her, but Jowan had to find out in the dead of night, from someone else, long after his fate was decided.

As soon as the rage began to simmer down, panic and embarrassment sprung up in its place. Before Irving could respond to her outburst, she let out a long sigh, shaking her head. “Very well. So I’m to be put to work. Do you have something in mind?”

He was quick to respond, as if he too wanted to put her words out of his mind. “There are a few places where I think your skills would be appreciated. Lenorah, for one, is always struggling to keep the storerooms organized. I’m sure she would appreciate any help you could offer, even if it’s just carrying things around for her. Several of our tailors have…retired, and we are in need of replacements.” His tone softened and warmed, like the way he used to talk to her. “I know how much you enjoy sewing, so I thought that might be a good fit. Other than that, you could join one of the other Senior Enchanters in their research, but I doubt any of that would appeal to you.”

He was right…that didn’t appeal to Laz at all. As tempted as she was to take that job just to spite him, she knew she would be in this for the long haul, and shouldn’t pick something that would only make her miserable.

“There is…one other thing you may be able to assist with.” Papers shuffled. “I’m sure you heard of the burning of Starkhaven Circle?”

Only distantly. News of the outside world rarely reached inside the Circle unless it was very important, and Irving knew that.

“Of course,” Laz said anyway, sure that Irving, being Irving, would explain whether she knew or not.

“Such loss of life, such devastation. A tragedy, truly. But the Chantry is handling it in the best way they can.” He was silent for a moment, and when she said nothing, he continued, “For the moment, all the mages and Templars from that Circle are staying in Kirkwall. However, quarters are tight there, and a few dozen of their mages are being transferred here.”

“I see,” she said slowly, not sure what this had to do with her. Then, carefully, “I can’t imagine how awful it’s been in Kirkwall.” He said nothing in response. After a beat, she added, “All those people crammed into one Circle. Starkhaven was _huge_ , wasn’t it? Kirkwall can’t possibly house all of those displaced mages.”

“I’m sure they couldn’t have.” Irving waved the notion away immediately, and she heard his chair creak as he leaned back.

Laz thought for a long moment before she replied. “Luckily for them,” she said carefully, “we have enough vacancies that it won’t be too difficult to move them in. We certainly have more than enough room.”

Irving was quiet for a long moment. “Yes. More than enough.” He sighed again, and then continued, “The Starkhaven mages and Templars will be here in a week or so…I would like you to show them around, get them accustomed to life here. From what I here, the atmosphere of Starkhaven was…different, and they’ll likely need to adjust.”

Laz inclined her head. She knew what Irving was doing. No, not Irving. Greagoir. Keep her busy enough, and maybe she’d stay out of trouble.

She almost laughed at the thought. Surely they knew her better than that. Try as she might, Laz had never been good at staying out of trouble. No matter where she hid, it always seemed to find her.


	3. My Skin Feels So Paper Thin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young woman starts a new job, and makes an important acquaintance...actually, she makes three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually not really that pleased with this chapter, but I really needed to get it done, so here it is. I may come back and edit it later...no major changes, just some pacing things.
> 
> The song for this chapter is:  
> "Crystals" by Monsters & Men

There was a cool breeze that smelled faintly of the sea, and the warmth of the sun caressed her skin. Laz tilted her head back, letting the rays kiss her face. Her skin was warm and sticky from the humidity and the heat, but she didn’t care. After more than a decade of being denied the sun, she would rather let herself burn than turn her face away from it. Her heart fluttered with the thrill of the forbidden. Distantly she knew that someone must be looking for her, that she was doing something wrong, and yet her mind was completely at peace. She sighed softly and leaned back, letting her back fall back against…a tree? Yes, she remembered…this was what a tree felt like. Rough and uncomfortable, but stable and warm. She remembered the feeling of bark on her bruised hands and scraped knees, and her legs swinging off the edge of the branch. She remembered calling down to her brother, daring him to climb higher and pull her up. She let her eyes slide closed and gave in to the dangerous memories of her childhood, of a time before.

Everything fell quiet, and she knew suddenly that she wasn’t alone. There was someone beside her, barely out of her reach, but close enough that she could hear their breathing and the rustle of their clothes. Her cane rested against her leg, the wolf’s snout at the top digging softly into her hipbone, anchoring her.

Where was she? How had she gotten here? She tried to remember, but had only hazy recollections. She remembered laying down, exhausted beyond words, and then waking up and needing to _go_ , anywhere at all. She remembered being restless and unable to keep still. She remembered finding this path down towards the water, and sitting down beneath the tree, staring out over the water until…until…

Ah.

She opened her eyes and turned her head. She sighed softly. The breeze smelled nice, though it made her dangerously nostalgic. She knew this breeze. She knew this water. She knew this tree. She abruptly put a lid on the nearly overflowing nostalgia in her chest. This was not the time nor the place for such longings.

“Hello,” she said. Conversational, cautious. She was still too drowsy to know what nature of demon was sharing her dream, and perhaps that in itself was telling. Sloth was not her weakness, but they were a dangerous foe nevertheless.

For a few minutes (was it that long? Time moved so strangely in the Fade), she got no reply. Then, she heard a soft rustle as they turned to her, and a voice replied, “Hello, Laz. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

The voice was deep and slow, like thunder from a long way away, and a part of it soothed her. It was familiar, though she couldn’t place her finger on where she’d heard it before. She didn’t answer its question. She didn’t bother keeping track of the demons that haunted her dreams. Getting too familiar with any one of them seemed like a monumentally bad idea. It was akin to making friends with a Templar.

She pushed herself up slowly, turned her face towards where the demon believed itself to be. It was close enough that she could feel the imaginary warmth of its body; if she moved her hand just a few inches, she would brush against it. She almost did. A part of her wanted to. Just to see what would happen.

“This is a lovely dream,” she said. Her voice sounded distant and distracted. As she spoke the words, she tried hard to make them false, trying to pick at the flaws and discomforts the scene caused her.

“Oh, I can’t take all the credit!” The wind whistled around its hand as it waved away her gratitude. “It’s yours…or I think it is. It was already mostly constructed by the time I found you. I just added a few…extra details. Little things you couldn’t quite remember.” It paused. “I don’t know them very well either, but I took them from people who do. Perks of the job.” She heard its grin, and its pride in its work.

She furrowed her brow. Which parts of the dream, she wondered, were not of her own creation? “Thank you?”

Its voice grew warm and amused. “You’re very welcome.” It shifted again, and its body sounded slightly different…bigger, perhaps, heavier. “You are my host _and_ my guest, and I want you to be comfortable.”

“…thank you.” This time, her hesitation was clear.

“I know how hard it is to find comfort in the waking world,” it said, “and you’ve earn a little bit of comfort, don’t you think?”

“I have no need for comfort,” she said icily.

It hummed and said nothing more.

For several long moments, they just sat in silence. Laz was very tired, and it was…nice here.

“What do you want?” she asked finally, still casual. This is what it always came down to.

The demon sighed and shifted again. Its body sounded even bigger now, and that detail picked at her memory. “What do we all want, my love?” it answered, answering just as calmly. It didn’t dance around the question, it didn’t deflect her words. “Power? Security? _Freedom_?” It leaned in closer, voice dropping just above a husky whisper. “Isn’t that what you want?”

She turned her face away, frowning. “You really think that I could give you freedom? We’d be killed before we reached the ground floor.” She thought a moment, of how powerful she was, and how powerful she would be if she allowed the demon to take her. “Well, we might make it to the front doors. But no further than that, for sure.”

“You underestimate yourself, love.” It moved closer, not quite touching her. She felt heat on her cheek, a play at breath. She resisted the urge to brush it away, and to lean in.

“I don’t, actually.” A rush of sureness passed over her. She _was_ quite formidable, and she knew it. “And neither do the Templars. You realize there are at least four of them in stabbing distance of me at any moment. I’m quite the person of interest these days.”

It moved away. “Yes,” it said. “I know. It would be quite the adventure. You and I, fighting those who hold us prisoner, breaking free of this cage and flying away. Wouldn’t it be grand?”

“That doesn’t sound like an adventure I’m interested in, but thank you,” Laz said, and though she couldn’t see it, she knew the demon was smiling.

“How easily you lie,” it mocked, and she felt it come even closer, a hairslength from her skin. “But tell me—”

And suddenly its voice changed, from deep and thunderous to light, heavily accented, and warm…and familiar.

"Tell me, little owl,” it asked, “how long will you remain in this fragile cage?”

When she woke, her face was wet. She struggled to keep her breathing even, but couldn’t stop the occasional wheeze escaping. She rolled over and curled into a ball with her back pressed against the cold wall. Her heart pounded in her ears, a frenzied tempo to her panic and longing. The shock of the demon’s final words left her trembling and chilled as if she’d been doused in ice water.

She shoved down her sobs before her guard could hear, and forced herself upright. She felt hot and light-headed, and she shoved her fists into her eyes, trying to will the wetness away. She couldn’t help allowing herself to slump forward over her knees, hugging herself like a child.

It was another ten minutes before she had the strength to get up. Her body and heart were heavy. Going through the familiar motions of putting on her robes (she chose the green one today; though she could barely see it, she’d always liked this one the best) and taming her growing hair gave her the time she needed to calm her mind. She had work to do.

It had been several days since her talk with Irving. In the end, she’d decided to work in the with the tailors. She’d spend her days sewing robes and helping enchant gloves for noblewomen, and her evenings repairing tapestries and embroidering Chantry handkerchiefs. Somewhere in there, she’d continue helping the apprentices.

 _Just watch,_ she thought, _I’ll be so busy soon that I won’t have time to even_ think _about blood magic._

The spiteful thought quickly turned melancholy as blood magic reminded her of Jowan. It had been months. She knew that she was no longer permitted to openly admit that she missed him, that she loved him, that she wished more than anything that she could have gone with him. She’d learned very quickly that there was a limit in the Circle to how long you were allowed to grieve. Soon, she would have to forget that Jowan had ever existed, just as she’d forgotten her family and her home.

She ran her fingers along the embroidered inner hem of her sleeve, trying to calm her thoughts. She knew that she wore her heart on her cheeks when she was tired, and that was a dangerous thing in the Circle. Especially for someone under such careful scrutiny as she was. She shook her head, imagining these melancholy thoughts flying off of her head like drops of water after a bath. When she stepped out of her room, her face was neutral and her heart was empty once again.

As she made her way towards the meal hall, Laz traced the pattern of stitches she’d been building over the course of the past thirteen years. She wasn’t surprised that Irving had suggested she work with the tailors. She’d spent the first few weeks in the Circle hiding out in their office, clumsily sewing up the holes she was anxiously ripping in the sleeves of her robes. She’d never told anyone what her family’s business was, but it was very obvious. She was surprised no one had ever brought it up, but then…people knew not to ask her about her life before.

Though she tried her best not to, Laz found her mind wandering towards her family. Thirteen years it’d been since she’d seen them, and she wondered if they still thought of her too. Did Deniro still climb that same tree they’d used to play around, trying to find where Laz was hiding in the field below? Did her father still wait up for her in the evenings, leaving the door open and trusting that she would find her way home? Did they still set aside extra peaches in the summer, knowing how much she loved them?

She brushed those thoughts off her forehead, exasperated with herself. She’d _just_ had this conversation with herself. Templars couldn’t read minds, but it was still best to keep those kinds of thoughts out of your mind.

The meal hall was crowded this early in the morning. Apprentices scarfed down hasty meals before a day of study, and mages took a bit more time to savor the fruits of their labor. As an apprentice, Laz had always thought that the mages’ breakfast must taste sweeter with the triumph of success and knowing you’d survived. As she ate, however, it still turned to ash in her mouth. She had succeeded, yes, and survived, yes…but for what?

The chatter of the dining hall was subdued and cautious. The creak of Templar armor was louder than any mage dared raise their voice.

The oranges in the meal hall were nothing like the ones Laz had loved as a child. They were sweeter and softer, not as tart and not as large. She remembered the first time she’d eaten one, and how Jowan had had to calm down the uncontrollable crying fit it inspired. She wiped away another stubborn tear. This was getting ridiculous now.

“Hey! You look tired, Miss Surana, are you okay?” A flash of brown and green moved into the corner of Laz’s view, and she was no longer alone.

Laz turned her face up, forcing a smile onto her face. “Good morning, Lyra.” She didn’t have to fake the warmth in her voice, but it was difficult to keep the exhaustion from creeping in. “I’m fine.” She gestured to her face, faking amusement. “This is just what my face looks like, you know.”

A creak of wood announced Lyra setting herself down, and a dramatic sigh announced her mood.

“I’m sorry, Miss Surana.” A small warm hand briefly pressed itself against the back of Laz’s, and then Lyra got right to the point, as was her way. “So we’re not practicing today either?”

“I’m afraid not, my dear.” Laz took a sip of water, trying to clear the dust from her throat. “I have work now. I’ll be very busy these days. I think Fridays, maybe, we can set aside some time in the afternoon for lessons. Grace should be feeling better soon, so hopefully you’ll be learning with her again.”

Another dramatic sigh. “But Grace doesn’t teach as good as you do! She didn’t explain any of that stuff about, like, lifeblood, and connection, and energy, and stuff. She just tells us to _do it_ , but doesn’t tell us _how_.” Lyra took a very loud sip of her drink. “I like you as a teacher better.”

Laz chuckled. She remembered being equally frustrated by Grace’s frank teaching methods. “I know, it’s hard,” she admitted. “But Grace taught me, and I’m doing fine, aren’t I? You just have to take what she says and apply it to your own needs.”

“What do you mean? How did _you_ get so good at it?” Lyra was one apprentice who struggled the hardest. Unlike Kian, she didn’t have a natural affinity to summon entropy, but she was fascinated by the school, and had once confided in Laz that she wanted to study to see if it could be used in medicine, rather than just in combat. While not quite the kind of innovation Laz had been forced to learn, it was similar enough that Laz wanted very much to help her.

Distracted a bit by those thoughts, Laz hesitated for the slightest second before she answered truthfully. “I use it to see.”

“You…you what?”

Laz lowered her voice and scraped her fork against the rim of her plate, heart pounding. “I use it to see. The stuff about lifeblood and energy? That’s how I see. Any time I use magic, I can…see the living things around me.” She tilted her head to the side, ear twitching as she listened to see if any of her entourage were coming close. She raised her voice again. “I found the spells difficult too, honestly. I still do. Entropy is a difficult school to master.” She allowed herself to speak in a conversational volume again, and she put her fork down. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but practice makes perfect.”

For a long, tense moment, Lyra said nothing. Panic grew deep in Laz’s belly, and as soon as it had risen to her throat, her student spoke. “Well…I _know_.” She let out a dramatic groan. “I just wish I could be _good_ already!”

Laz smiled. “Don’t rush it, love. You’re only sixteen. You have plenty of time.”

“But…one of my classmates has already taken his Harrowing, and he’s eighteen!”

Laz remembered that fear well. “Don’t worry about it too much.” She extended her hand across the table. Lyra met her halfway, twisting their fingers together. “I took my Harrowing at twenty-three, and you don’t think I’m a failure, do you?”

“Nooo…but you’re…” Lyra cut herself off, though Laz had an idea of what she was going to say. It was nothing she hadn’t heard before.

She forced a smile, and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Don’t worry so much, Lyra. It’ll see itself out. I’ll see you Friday?”

“See you Friday.” She sounded glum and defeated, a tone that didn’t sit right with her bright voice. Lyra got to her feet and retreated. After a few seconds, Laz heard her unite with some of her friends, and the conversation was behind them.

She wasn’t hungry anymore. She waited long enough that no one would be suspicious, and then got up to leave.

Her feet took her thoughtlessly to the tailor’s room. It was up on the third floor, a honeycomb of small connected rooms stuffed near to bursting with fabric and mages working. Laz rapped on the door with her staff before she pushed the door open, announcing her arrival rather than asking for permission.

“Ah! You here for some more thread, little bunny?”

Laz pressed her lips together, and folded her fingers very carefully over the head of her staff.

“No. Irving has instructed me to work here.” She kept her voice cool and took a deep breath, shoving down the rage.

A light laugh failed to cut the tension from her shoulders, and Hudson moved around the table to approach her. Two heavy hands fell without warning onto her shoulders, and he pulled her in.

“Well, then, welcome to the shop! I’m Radish! I’ll introduce you around, and get you started! We might have some big child needles in the back you can use.”

Laz wanted to protest that she _definitely_ didn’t need child needles, but another question was at the front of her mind.

“Your name is Radish?”

“What? Oh, yes.” He laughed again. He still hadn’t taken his hand off her shoulder. “My parents had interesting ideas. Thought the name would make me strong. Here, sit here, I’ll go fetch Tanya, and she’ll teach you the basics.”

“I am well aware of the basics of sewing,” she assured him. “I only need to know what I’ll be doing.”

He laughed for a third time, and Laz knew she would be sick of that sound soon.

“Sit here, and I’ll go get the needles! And Tanya!”

It took Laz over a week to convince the tailors that she didn’t need any of the basic lessons they were trying so desperately to teach her. It was another week after that before they stopped breathing over her shoulder (sometimes quite literally) and questioning loudly why Irving had sent the blind one down to work such delicate work. So far they’d only trusted her with mending robes, despite the fact that she was sure she would soon be churning out much better work than any of them.

“I spent the first nine years of my life doing this, you know,” she snapped impatiently, silencing the gossiping mages who thought they were out of her hearing. “I’ve been sewing since I was old enough to squeeze my fingers. If you find my work unsatisfactory, which I _highly_ doubt you will, then maybe you should go complain to Irving instead of just sitting in dark corners chattering like a bunch of ragged _magpies_.”

Stunned silence met her unexpected rant, and even Laz found herself still and tongue-tied in the wake of her lashing out. She ran her fingers along the lines she’d stitched, refusing to let her face slip into anger.

“Would someone please pass me the dark green thread? I’m nearly out, and unlike _some_ people, I don’t think that black is ‘nearly the same.’”

An unnamed hand quickly passed her what she wanted, and her curt thanks went without reply.

The uncomfortable silence stretched into uncomfortable hours. One by one, the others finished their projects and left to their quarters, sparing Laz only a brief goodbye if they bothered to give her one at all. Eventually she was the only one in the room. As the last person ducked out through the curtains, she let out a huge sigh, and tried to force her shoulders down from where they’d risen up to her ears.

When she was alone, she felt less self-conscious. After a few moments, she lifted her hands and held her project as close to her eyes as she could stand. You could see the precise moment she’d snapped, as her stitches became tight and cramped. She wondered if it would be too much trouble to pull the stitches back…it’s not like anyone would notice. Mage robes weren’t exactly the height of quality.

The earlier outburst had been too irritating for her to slip into the calming trance sewing usually created for her. As soon as she was alone, she took a deep breath and tried to imagine the tension sliding out of her body like water from a roof. She raised her sewing to her face, and slowly began to pull out the stitches she’d done in anger. Soon, the peace she sought came for her. She felt a cool breeze against her face, and could imagine the warm rays of the sun coming down on her. She began to hum softly, and as the solitude wore on, she began to sing, old Antivan lullabies she hadn’t heard in years.

A soft knock broke her peace. She had only a second to banish her voice when the curtain parted. A Templar and a quieter set of footsteps came into the room. Laz raised her face, which had long relaxed into a mask of placid boredom. It almost hardened now, but years of practice kept her mask of helpful stupidity firmly in place.

“May I help you?” Her voice trembled on the last word. She tried to think of how late it was, where the nearest occupied room was, whether anyone knew how late she had planned to stay here. It wasn’t past time for bed yet, she didn’t think. Not that time had ever been her strong suit.

“This is Connor,” the Templar announced gruffly. “He’s a new apprentice, and he’s going to need some new robes. The ones he has are…not fit to be worn.” There was the barest hint of a hesitation, which might have been touching, if the next words hadn’t been so sarcastic.

Laz thought back to her own trek to the Tower, walking behind the overcrowded wagon of new arrivals with the other elves. When she’d arrived, she was trailing bloody footprints across the stone floor, her ragged shoes having long been torn to shreds. The smock she’d worn hadn’t been pretty to begin with, but by the time she arrived it was ragged and muddy and barely covered her.

“I’m sure they’re not,” she said. Selfishly, she was a bit relieved that this was why the Templar was here. She forced a bit more brightness into her tone. “Welcome, Connor. Come here, and I’ll get you set up with a set of starter robes until we get you ones that are measured to you.”

A high, petulant voice shot at her, older than she expected. “You…you’re one of those elves, aren’t you? I’ve seen your kind around the castle. They brought in our dinner and cleaned the floors.”

Laz shoved the annoyance down. He was just a child. He had likely learned that tone of voice from his parents, and didn’t yet realize what it meant. “Yes, I’m an elf,” she said, “But I’m also the only person here who can help you, so perhaps a little bit of a softer tone.” She put her project down, and held out her hands. “Come here.”

For a second, no one moved. Then, slowly, the boy came closer until the tips of her fingers were brushing his shoulders. He was not terribly tall, but his thick shoulders confirmed a sheltered and well-fed childhood.

“I’m going to pull you closer,” she said, and waited a moment before she did. She laid her fingers across his chest, approximating his measurements. He was well-fed, and the clothes he wore were fine and soft. That explained why he was so old. Nobles held onto their children longer than elves in the alienage.

She stepped away and turned to head into the other room. “Wait here for just a moment, and I’ll have some clothes for you.”

She’d taken the time a week ago to reorganize (or, more accurately, organize at all) the stockroom. It might not have mattered to the other tailors that there were untidy piles of robes spread haphazardly around the shelves, but it was a nightmare for her. She’d folded the robes neatly and stacked them on the shelves by size, with “embellished” pieces on the bottom and plain garments on the top.

She picked out a set of robes and laid them out on the table, laying her fingers across them just as she had across Connor’s shoulders. Satisfied with her choice, she re-folded the garments, grabbed two extra sets, and returned.

As far as she could tell, neither Connor nor the Templar had moved an inch.

“Here are your clothes, Connor! You can change in the room over there, and—”

“You will return your clothes to be discarded of,” the Templar interrupted, causing both Laz and the boy to start. “You will return here in the morning, where a more suitable tailor will measure you for your new robes. Until they are ready, you will wear what you’ve been given.”

“Um…but I like these. I want to wear my own clothes.” Connor’s voice was trembling, but it was also rising in pitch. “They were a present from—”

“And I like the brothels back home, but we all make sacrifices for the Maker.” The Templar obviously thought this the height of comedy, guffawing loud enough to drown out the hideous sliding of his armor.

Laz sighed internally. “All Circle mages wear robes like these, Connor.”

“But Mother told me I wouldn’t _go_ to a Circle!” Indignation hardened his tone.

Her heart squeezed in her chest, and for a brief moment, she was crouched in the corner of a dirty kitchen, sobbing hopelessly, while her father held her hands and promised he would never let them take her.

“Well, you’re here now,” the Templar said, before Laz could even gather her mind enough to speak. “So I suggest you stop whining and get changed like a good boy.”

“But I want _my_ robes!” he insisted in the tone that suggested that he was used to getting his way the first time he asked.

Laz sighed externally. Gods, she wasn’t good with children. Teens were much more in her comfort zone. They could take a harsher tone. “I understand,” she said as gently as she could. “I promise, these robes aren’t nearly as bad as they look. Look, mine even have some pretty bits on them!” She extended her hands, showing off the embroidery on her sleeves. Kids liked embroidery, right? She had as a kid.

He let out a small whine, and she sighed, dropping her arms down.

“Listen, Connor—”

“I’ll…I’ll wear the robes,” he said finally, interrupting her. And then he didn’t move.

For a moment, none of them moved.

“Ser, would you please step out a moment?” Laz asked.

“Why would I do that?” The sneer was obvious in the Templar’s voice.

“Because he probably doesn’t want to dress with a big suit of armor watching him.” Unspoken was the fact that no one cared about the presence of a blind elf. She lowered her voice slightly, forcing herself to use a lighter, gentler tone. “He is only a child, ser. There will be time for him to get used to your presence, but he just arrived. Let him have a moment of peace.”

For a moment, she thought he was going to refuse. Then, she heard the slide of his armor shrugging one shoulder, and he turned.

“Fine. Whatever. Just send him out when he’s done whining.” As he left, she heard him muttering under his breath about snotty nobles.

As soon as he stepped on the other side of the curtain that served as the workroom door, Laz let some of her pretense fall away. She knew he could probably still hear them, but in the Tower, playing pretend was vital. She took a step forward, smiling as gently as she could.

“Go on, Connor.” She gestured to a small room to the left, a changing room that was infrequently used. “You can change in there, as soon as you’re ready.”

He didn’t move.

Laz supressed another sigh. If she kept this up, she’d pass out. “Connor…” She took a step closer to him, and held out her hands.

It took him a moment to realize what she wanted, but after a beat he took a step forward so that she could rest her hands on his shoulder. She briefly considered kneeling, but he was too tall and she far too short for that to be anything short of awkward. She bent forward ever so slightly and turned her eyes where she approximated his face to be.

“Connor…I know…what you feel right now,” she started. “I know you’re upset, and you miss your home, and you miss your family. But it’s the rules that you have to wear these robes.”

“I want to keep my clothes,” he said one more time, and she could _hear_ the tremble in his lower lip. Her heart melted a little bit, and she stroked her finger over his cheekbone gently.

“I know, baby, I know…but you can’t keep those clothes. But if you just…” She shook her head and tried again. “But I promise, I’ll make you new ones, okay? I’ll make you clothes that are just the way you like, okay?”

Oh gods, was that a sniffle? Oh, every god, she hoped he wasn’t crying. She never was good with people crying. She was a sympathetic crier, and if he cried, then she would cry, and if she cried, then it would be a disaster.

She stood up straight and took one step closer, and very carefully and slowly wrapped her arms around his shoulders. For a second, he was still as stone, but hesitantly he raised one hand and grabbed at her shirt. Immediately, she felt the wetness on the front of her robes, and she awkwardly patted at his back.

“It’s okay, love, it’s okay…”

For a few moments, he just cried into her chest. She wasn’t quite sure how to react. Slowly, she let herself relax, sliding her hand between his shoulders gently. She hummed gently, the same lullaby she’d sung earlier. Eventually, he quieted, his grip on her shirt loosening.

“You feeling better?”

In answer, Connor just pulled away abruptly, and without a word, marched away from her into the changing room. For a moment, she stood stunned, and then tugged her robes back into place. She patted at the wet spots in the hopes they wouldn’t be too visible.

When he emerged, he went straight past her towards the Templar standing on the other side of the curtain. He didn’t say a word to her, announcing to the Templar that he was ready to go to his room now. She wasn’t surprised by the brush-off, nor would she be surprised if she found out that he had left his clothes on the floor for her to pick up. Even some of the older mages unwittingly (or so she hoped) treated her as if she was a servant just there to pick up after them and answer their stupid questions. Perhaps if she’d ever been a servant, she would be less annoyed, but she’d been a free spirit even as a child, and only her parents had ever ordered her around.

Laz waited just a moment, but when it became clear that Connor and the Templar were not returning, she turned and went into the changing room. She’d barely gone a step when her foot tangled in a pile of discarded clothes.

With a sigh, she reached down and picked up the rich garments Connor had discarded. They were of a much finer fabric than anything she’d ever worn, but having to gather them from the floor dampened any kind of wonder she might have felt at the quality. She’d turn them over to the Templars tomorrow…she didn’t have energy to deal with them today. She dumped them in a box of discard fabric, and tucked her projects away to an unused shelf. It was definitely time to retire. She was getting to the point where she was past productivity and getting into distraction. And the distraction was failing.

She paused as she stepped away from the shelf. Admitting to herself that she was trying to distract herself only reminded her of what she needed distracting from.

That demon had continued to taunt her…the one that used her father’s voice. It tried to convince her that freedom was worth the heavy price she would pay. No, worse…it tried to convince her that freedom was worth _any_ price she could pay. It taunted her with tactile memories she’d long suppressed, smooth wood beneath her fingers, the feel of juice running down her chin as she bit into an orange. Sometimes she even woke up hearing the sound of children laugh on the other side of a thin wall.

The dreams combined with Connor, and the reminder of her first night in the Circle…she felt like a string pulled too taut. Homesickness was a luxury she rarely afforded herself.

She’d cried her heart out the night she’d come to the Circle, and she’d had no one to hug her and tell her it would be okay. She’d learned on that first night to shut it all away. It was several days before Jowan found her, and by then the damage had been done.

She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes and letting out a shuddering breath. She allowed herself a few seconds to cry, a single sobbing breath, and then she straightened up again. She took a moment to straighten her robes, flatten her hair, and calm her breathing. This wasn’t the first time she’d had such a crisis, and she was sure it wouldn’t be the last. Just like before, she would power through.

When she stepped through the curtained door, her face was a mask of exhausted complacency, all hints of emotion eliminated.

Her entourage was waiting for her outside. One or two of them leapt to their feet as she stepped out, having taken the time to rest. The urge to greet them was strong but her sense of self-preservation was stronger. She walked past without even turning her head, joining the stream of bodies moving around the Tower.

She felt like a ghost walking through the halls. Though she was chubbier than most other mages, she was still short and quiet, and most pushed past her without a glance. The tapping of her cane was lost in the evening cacophony.

It sounded like everyone was gathering for dinner. She considered for a brief moment going to eat, but her appetite had long soured. The Templars watched her walk by the large open doors. The heavy stamp of their boots drowned out the hustle and bustle around her, so loud she felt her bones tremble.

She would never recall what thoughts she thought as she made her way to the mages’ quarters. She existed as if she was in the Fade, fuzzy and without detail. She bumped into someone on the stairs, a flash of blond and a playful voice, but the interaction was not committed to memory. She held the piece of paper they gave her without knowing why, tucking it into her sleeve. Even the sensation did not pull her from her stupor.

She was snapped rudely back into her body as she stepped into the hall leading to her quarters.

Something was wrong. Something was different. She could tell immediately, but it was a  There was an uneasy creaking, a new set of armor standing in front of a bedroom. As Laz got closer to her door, her heart began to beat uneasily. It was _her_ bedroom. It was _her_ guard.

She had a new guard.

“Good evening,” she said as she approached, trying not to let her panic show.

“Good evening.”

A tremor ran down her spine at the deep, unfamiliar voice. What had happened to her old guard? What had inspired the change? She thought with trepidation over her actions over the past few weeks, wondering if she’d done anything especially heinous. She’d continue to tutor the entropy mages, but no one had warned her against that…well, not overtly.

“You, uh…Surana?”

“Yes.”

“I’m, uh…Guinevere. Nice to…meet you, I guess? Yeah.”

Laz blinked, taken aback. This wasn’t usually how she learned Templars’ names. “It’s…a pleasure to meet you.” She let herself smile, inclining her head as she would if she were greeting another mage. It was with slow uncertainty that she walked past the Templar. No more words were exchanged, but the nervous shifting of the woman’s weight in her armor kept Laz up most of the night.

When she finally drifted off to sleep, her father’s voice greeted her from the darkness.


End file.
